


if heaven is anywhere

by orphan_account



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:37:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Buster Posey meets a boy.





	if heaven is anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> The only true thing is that they played together. Specific games referenced did happen as stated. I was going to put box scores in. And then I got lazy.
> 
> This has been a WIP for about three years. If you read it twice it will 100% be slightly different the second time. The greatest tragedy is how it's still only 5,000 words.
> 
> Title is from Blue Tacoma by Russell Dickerson because it had to be.

He's got the biggest brown eyes, and when the light hits them right they turn gold.  
  
Motherfucker.  
  
He must be older than Buster. He's on the young side of everything right now, nineteen and just through with his freshman year. The Cape is all sophomores, a few juniors, the stray guys born in '83 because they went on missions. But this one is tiny. Not even that much shorter than him, but he's all legs and nothing through the shoulders. The brightest, sweetest smile he's ever seen. Buster's so aggressively gravitated towards him. It kind of smacks him in the face.  
  
The boy's name is Robertson. David, he remembers from the roster. It sounds vaguely familiar, like maybe they played each other before, but it's so generic southern that it might just be that. When they're done with their first practice Buster's sure he's over his crush. Done, no big deal. Doesn't date guys, he's not about it. And then David does his little walk, hips swaying, over to him when they're done and asks him if he wants to get dinner with some of the other pitchers. The crush is most certainly not over and he tries not to trip over himself saying yes, standing still. It's the most surreal moment of his life.  
  
_He's probably not even gay. And neither are you._  
  
———  
  
Buster has high hopes. He wants to see David pitch. He doesn't know why. And then David blows the first game he gets into. And the second. And he won't look at him, as much as Buster tries to make eye contact on the mound or in the parking lot after. But he's not looking at anyone, so he probably shouldn't take it personally.  
  
He stops losing, but the runs keep coming. Wild pitches and hit batters. He's intense when he pitches, a lot like Buster, but there's a little less fist-pumping and yelling. He glares at nothing when things go bad, ears turning red, the corners of his mouth pulling down hard like he's doing it on purpose.  
  
His third appearance involves a home run. His fourth is a blown save — they lose in extras. The fifth is the same. Buster almost doesn't notice sometimes, too absorbed in his own bullshit, but then they're two weeks into the season and David's drowning. Buster thinks enough is enough and corners him in the lot after the game, gets close enough to see how tired and bored he looks. Blowing the biggest game of his life was bad enough, and now he's ruining this team, too. None of them are even that excited to be here.  
  
"Can we talk?" he asks. He sounds a little desperate and David just shrugs. He's pretty forgiving of that sort of thing.  
  
"Just come over later."  
  
He does. He'd do anything as long as David asked. Once he's there and they’re on the couch together, the house quiet since the family went out for the evening, David won't just look at him and his throat feels tight. Until he lets himself think for a second about how he might feel, and oh, duh. He feels guilty. His humor is biting harder, he loves to tease him, but he’s not that complicated, and he’s a lot like Buster. And suddenly he just looks sad. He thinks he's a screw up. This stupid season that doesn't matter is all his fault.  
  
"You're not a screw-up," he says, in response to this conversation he just had with himself. David doesn't seem to notice.  
  
"I know." He answers, but it doesn't sound like he totally believes it. David’s opinion of himself relies almost entirely on his performance.  
  
"You're not."  
  
"Fine, then I'm just bad.”  
  
"You look pretty good." He's kind of lying, because he looks terrible, but he also laughs at any joke a pretty girl tells, even if it’s terrible.  
  
David starts to say something sarcastic, but then he stops and just sort of… looks, like Buster just asked for something he knows he won't get. "Think so?"  
  
"Mhm. I like strikeouts." And David laughs and smiles at him and it feels like nothing else exists, and Buster wants to tell him how pretty he is.  
  
They sit for a while, ESPN on low in the background. It seems like they should be talking about something significant. "They want me to catch, like, full-time." Buster says at some point, like it was some deep dark secret.  
  
"Huh," David stretches his legs out until his feet touch Buster's thigh and doesn't flinch away from the contact. Like he did it on purpose.  
  
"I don't think I want to." He says, just so he doesn't have to hear himself think.  
  
"You'd be good at it."  
  
He smiles. "Think so?"  
  
"It's kind of just knowing when they need you. You're pretty good at that."  
  
"I am?"  
  
"You came over." David's tilting his head against the couch cushions, like now _he's_ asking for something.  
  
This is it, Buster thinks. Or at least it could be it, and if he doesn't find out he'll always assume it was. "You could sit closer."  
  
David grins and Buster stops holding his breath, momentarily. "You want me to sit with you?"  
  
"Yeah, a little." Or a lot. No major difference.  
  
David slides over, legs in Buster's lap, holding one of Buster's hands, wrapped in both of his. It's simultaneously wholesome and definitely inappropriate, because his hand is resting between everything he's been thinking about for two weeks. David's about the only one on the team with legs worth looking at, kind of curvy the way muscular girls are, all hips and quads, and until now he's been able to compartmentalize.  
  
"This is okay with you?" David asks, like he's waiting for the freak out.  
  
"Yeah." He's a little surprised he's telling the truth.  
  
David leans over then and kisses his cheek, right over by his mouth, and Buster turns his head and lets him actually kiss him, too, and he's definitely into it and this is definitely okay. He kind of loses track of time for a while, and when he comes back to himself it's because his body's pressed into the back of the couch and David's straddling him with his tongue in Buster's mouth and a hand in his jeans.  
  
He feels stupid. He's willing to do anything to avoid feeling stupid. And here he's caught a crush and his life's work is suddenly nothing. He hadn't realized how right his brothers were about him being blind to his own luxury, the privilege of being the smartest and the strongest and the best, until right now. Because it's not like he's never been with a guy before, but all of them were just as clueless as he was, and in its own way it was a good thing. Not knowing how to suck dick meant you were man enough to have never done it. When it seemed like a one-off thing it was sort of acceptable.  
  
David's obviously not like that and Buster wishes he'd picked more up in high school for this. For a lot of reasons, but mostly for what David looks like right now, tongue sliding over his swollen lips, legs spread in his lap, needy and perfect, and for how in about half a second he's made a decision and has Buster's jeans open and is on his knees on the floor.  
  
Jesus.  
  
He doesn't even have to think about it and he deep-throats him in one go (knows his audience), which only makes it harder to contend with. He's showy, too, even though he knows a nineteen year old can't take it, looking at his lips all stretched out around him when he pulls off slow like that. David doesn't do anything halfway, and apparently has no gag reflex, even when Buster brushes the back of his throat, and he's sure getting a reaction. If that all isn't enough by itself he's pried his own shorts open, because blowing Buster like it's the last thing he'll ever do is making him crazy, too. That's kind of all it takes.  
  
Afterwards David slides back into his lap, sunk all the way against him until their chests are almost, arms folded around Buster’s neck. Buster doesn't even think about not kissing him, even though tasting himself in another boy's mouth seemed gross until now. He's inadequate again, but he has to try, nudging David’s fly open with his knuckles and wrapping a hand around him, thinking he should be better at this, for a person with matching hardware and all.  
  
He's hesitant, but there's something instinctive about it, and as soon as he gets that far his brain recovers and he remembers what he's been training to do for the last six years. He's definitely thought about what David looked like naked before, but he never figured he was that big, even if his reasons for thinking so weren't very scientific. He didn't expect to be dealing with something about the same as his. He also didn't expect to be so turned on by it.  
  
"Just… yeah, Jesus, like that." About halfway through David's voice goes up an octave, gets a little whiny as Buster starts working him harder. He's so pretty and vulnerable and Buster's getting that feeling in his stomach again because here's this boy rocking his hips into him with his mouth open on Buster's neck, and making those breathy sounds for him. Because of him.  
  
Before he's even caught his breath David looks right at him, eyes tired, biting his lip, so close. "Can you stay?" And Buster isn't sure his host mom won't call the GM and report him missing, and there's come on the only shirt he has, but yeah. He can stay.  
  
———  
  
To think he kissed this boy for the first time a week ago.  
  
Buster's had sex with men before. It’s part of the reason this is so nerve-wracking. He knows he's probably not any good at it. He used to be proud that the number was only two, three if you were generous.  
  
Now, at the moment, David's on his back on the bed, knees pulled up, a hand wrapped around one of Buster's shoulders, anchoring himself. He's only lost his shorts, but the boxers are small enough that he might as well be naked, as far as Buster's concerned. And now he wishes he knew what he was doing, because David's so sure of himself in this one way, and now he's lying there almost naked, expectant, hips twitching up when Buster kisses him. Buster's a top and David is not and he figures that ought to mean he can keep control of a situation.  
  
David sighs, finally, with Buster's lips wasting time on his neck. In clearly practiced movements he tucks his thumbs into his boxers, discarding them, and nudges Buster off, rolling onto his stomach to dig through his bedside table. Buster kind of wants to ask why he has condoms there just for the heck of it, but he doesn't want to know that he might not be special.  
  
David sits up, drops what he's collected between his legs and looks at Buster. Too close, though, and Buster wants to disappear a little bit, because he can tell David knows he's lost. Buster wants to be the protector, he's comfortable that way, it gives him purpose, and this is particularly disturbing.  
  
David's still looking at him, with a little more curiosity now, winding his arms around Buster's neck, kissing his jaw, forcing his head up a little. "It's not a big deal. It's just me." He murmurs against his skin. "What do you want?"  
  
Buster sighs, his eyes closed, head tipped back. It's easier to say that way. "I wanna fuck you." _I want to take care of you, I want to prove I can be enough of a man for you._  
  
"How do you want me?" he asks, slutty and accommodating. Buster shivers.  
  
"On your back."  
  
He can feel David grin into his neck. "Wanna look at me, huh?" And Buster laughs, but he can't think of anything smart to say, so he just murmurs his agreement. David chuckles, kisses his throat, and lays back, pulling Buster with him.  
  
"You wanna do it yourself or do you just wanna watch?" David asks, looking at him through his eyelashes as he flicks the cap on the lube open, and Buster's kind of distracted by how mesmerizing David's accent is when it gets real thick.  
  
"Watch," he answers, nuzzling the side of his neck, sliding his hands against his chest. The look of mild amusement on David's face fades fast as he works two fingers into himself. His tongue finds his lower lip, back arches, head falls back a little, but he won't close his eyes, keeps them fixed on Buster, and Buster doesn't know where to look.  
  
He's four fingers deep and bright pink when Buster stops him; he doesn't know who's breathing harder. He sinks into him, slow and easy, and David fucking _whimpers_. Buster feels a little like he cheated, skipping right to this part, but it's hard to keep his mind on anything for very long. David worked himself over so thoroughly and he's still so _tight_ , and Buster's enjoying it until it occurs to him that David's making these soft frustrated sounds under him, rocking his hips against him, trying to get there, and he's sort of regretting not asking for his back. But he wanted to see David's pretty face taking him and this is what he gets, the angle of his thrusts just a little off, so he gets David all hot and tight because he wouldn't know the difference and David gets not-quite-there. He stops and runs a hand through David's hair, trying to figure out how to ask the question. He doesn't have to.  
  
"Hang on, let me…" he's about to ask if David plans on finishing any of those sentences when he lifts his hips up a little, reaches for a pillow and slides his under his back before reaching for Buster, urging him forward as well as he can, lining them up again.  
  
"Try like that," he murmurs. It's finally right and Buster feels like it's _him_ taking David to the edge and not David trying to make him _feel_ like he did. He almost cries out with every thrust and tries to say every encouraging thing he can think of, _that's it_ and _so good_ and _more_. Buster's wary of hurting him and he doesn't respond quite right the first couple of times David whines _harder_.  
  
After, David's panting and wiping the sweat off his face and Buster's never been so proud in his life, to have done that to him. Of course he gets off on doing his job right. He should have assumed.  
  
They lie in virtual silence for a while, David's arm draped over Buster's chest, sweat cooling. There's something less than relaxing in the air, though, even if Buster can't put his finger on it.  
  
"Can I ask you a question?" David finally says, inching a little closer, his knee on Buster's thigh moving in more.  
  
"Yeah." He wonders for a second what David would think if he knew just how destroyed Buster was about him. He might do anything he asked.  
  
"Does it bother you that I've been around?"  
  
"Why would that bother me?" He's truthfully assuming David means more in terms of what it does to his masculinity, but he's not going to say that. David sighs. He's not sure if it's at him or not.  
  
"Because it means you're not my first?" _Because it means I'm a whore_ , is the obvious unspoken thing. And yeah, maybe that would have bothered him if he hadn’t grasped that he found the one guy in the world who might be out of his league.  
  
Buster smiles a little, trying to be reassuring. "I like you too much."  
  
David laughs softly and presses his face into his chest. "Okay."  
  
———  
  
Buster's role in his relationship with David has long been established, and it's not the one he's used to. He asks the stupid questions, he can't say anything just right. For the most polished nineteen year old in existence, the one all draft and camera ready, he's hopelessly lost. He hates it.  
  
The other problem is the nature of trying to be with a boy; he needs to know where he stands, all the time. And there's something in the male code, he knows, that says you don't do that. Better never to know than compromise your dignity asking questions. But David's in his room, laying next to him, eyes fixed on Sunday Night Baseball, and it just kind of gets away from him.  
  
"Are we dating?" he asks, cringing a little even as it's coming out. David looks at him, a little puzzled.  
  
"What do you mean?" The question he's really asking is obvious and reasonable — _aren't we having sex?_ — and that kind of makes Buster want to die, because he's fucking this boy and he still can't figure out where he stands with him.  
  
"I mean… I don't know what to say other than that."  
  
"Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?"  
  
"No," he says quickly, panicked, trying to save face, but that isn't right. "That's not what I meant. I think so?" He kind of sits with that for a second, considers that maybe it's okay not to be sure. Of course he can't accept that, but there's a moment where it seems okay to give in to something impractical and sappy like that.  
  
David, meanwhile, is beaming, like the little shit he is. He's gotten up and straddled Buster's hips, hanging over him. "You want to be my boyfriend?"  
  
"I thought I made that pretty clear," he says, clearing his throat as he does. There's nothing like trying to get the power back from David in a conversation. David doesn't think he's smart, he just thinks it's normal to be that good at talking. Buster doesn't agree.  
  
"I'll be your boyfriend." And there's no sarcasm. He's not joking or playing with him, his face is clear and Buster's pretty sure they're thinking the same thing. _Someone wants to be my boyfriend._ The moment breathes for a little, and then David laughs, pressing his face against Buster's cheek for a second. "So are you going to ask me to prom?"  
  
And Buster laughs, too. "Shit, yeah. I bet you look great in a tux."  
  
"I do look great in a tux." David's smiling so big at him, lying down on his chest, fingers just curling around his collar. "But what's the prom king want with me?"  
  
"I don't know, the prom king didn't get laid because he took a nice girl."  
  
David grins, brushes his fingertips against Buster's neck. "Well I left with a football player, did I ever tell you that story?"  
  
—————————  
  
They're at the beach together a lot. Years from now — after they name a puppy after this beach — he'll wonder if they were really being that discreet, if the other guys really couldn't tell they were doing this. He'll comfort himself by saying college kids are too self-absorbed. Especially the boys.  
  
One of the benefits of the beach, anyway, is that David seems much less concerned about his clothes being off when it seems appropriate. He shies a little when Buster starts taking his shirt off at home, in that setting, but it's never on when they're out there. He's getting so blonde, they both are, and he's hardly got hair on his chest still. He's skinny, too, in this way Buster likes, because he's so strong underneath and he does too many squats but he's so little in his arms. Sometimes their trips there are just staring at each other. Particularly when David goes swimming and comes back all wet.  
  
He's lying back on a towel now, always so bothered by sand on his skin, cap pulled low against the sun. He's shining. It's almost absurd.  
  
"You're gonna burn," Buster says, because he needs to remind himself David's there and he doesn't have anything else to say. It's not the worst thing he's ever said in such a situation. It's true, he's going to turn pink. He's right.  
  
David turns his head to grin at him, sticks his tongue out. "Well don't tell mom and I'll be fine."  
  
Buster laughs. He moves until he's stretched out over David, an elbow braced against the towel and wrapped around his back, the other pushing the cap up from David's face. His eyes open and he beams, lays a hand on Buster's hip and waits.  
  
They've never kissed in a wide open space without scouting it out first, not for real, and it seemed like the kind of thing Buster would never take the chance on, but here he is making out with his boyfriend on the beach, hand cupping his smooth cheek, and he's not exactly upset about it. He can appreciate this sort of thing. He's the last person to complain about sex — David says he's a little crazed — but he thinks this is his favorite, David slippery and cool under him and going with Buster's pace. This is how boyfriends are supposed to be, he thinks. Leading. Making grand gestures.  
  
He pulls back gradually and David doesn't fight him, just smiles back when Buster stares at him, happy and breathless, big hand still on his face. This is mine, he thinks, blown away by the idea. Neither of them know what to do about someone wanting them this much. Maybe they just feel like soulmates because they haven't felt like anyone else's. Or maybe all of this is real after all.  
  
"I love you," David says, still smiling, expression soft. He isn't scared. He could be, and he isn't. Buster laughs again, at the fucking joy of it, leans his head back a little. This is what he imagined championships feeling like. He can't think of anything else.  
  
He looks back down, finally, and touches his lips to David's again. "Jesus, I love you too."  
  
———  
  
They leave straight for the beach after a game against Chatham. They're always out somewhere way too late into the night, but if their teammates or host families notice they're carpooling a little too often, they don't mention it. They sit in the back of David's truck, playing with a baseball they can't figure out the origin of. Most of the crowd is gone for the day, but it's still light out as the sun starts to set, and there's a family out by the water, a man and a woman and two little blonde boys (which is all they have up here, babies whiter than ever seemed possible), throwing shells into the low-tide waves. David watches them, giving Buster a glance once in a while. He wants to ask if David would like that. He's never bothered wondering before. He's never been with anyone he thought he wanted to spend his life with.  
  
"Hey," Buster says suddenly, getting him to jump a little. Buster doesn't notice. He's holding the ball out to him. "How do you throw that curveball?" It seems like a reasonable enough question. Buster's a closer at home. And a pitcher here, even if it isn't very often.  
  
He slides close against him until their hips touch, taking Buster's hand in both of his. David guides his fingers, slowly, grazing his thumbs over his skin, his nails, awful callouses, making eye contact through his lashes once in a while. He's always had kind of a hand thing, was always freaking  out the boys in high school wanting to hold hands. Buster's hands are better and he wants to hold hands.  
  
His forefinger in place, the last one he tenderly bent and slid against the baseball, he squeezes Buster's wrist and hears his breath hitch, just a little.  
  
"That was pretty hot." Buster's staring at him a little when he looks up at again.  
  
David raises his eyebrows and stifles a laugh, somewhere between amused and interested. “Really?"  
  
"Yeah." He clears his throat, shaking his head. "Let's go home, I can show you mine."  
  
———  
  
"Are you gonna marry her?"  
  
There's nothing to do in David's room, nothing to look at. One window that faces the fence, a stack of books on the bedside table ("You thought I was too dumb to like reading, didn't you?”). But this is their spot, because David's host family is cool, and David has his face almost in Buster's neck while they spoon. Which is convenient, because Buster's sure neither of them could talk about this while looking at each other.  
  
David's talking about Kristen, anyway, because Buster can't help but tell him about everything. Kristen, who is brilliant and the prettiest girl he'd ever met in Leesburg. Who he took to prom and all but promised himself to, like small-town Georgian boys do, before they left for college. And who he was just fine being set on until June or so. He understands why David has to ask. David's never thought of women as an option, as far as he can tell, and it's rough being that guy in the forbidden same-sex relationship, to face that you're going to be the one that gets abandoned.  
  
Buster wraps his arms around him tighter, hands on his stomach. "No." He thinks he means it. Maybe that's just the false confidence of distance. But he knows he wants to mean it, which he thinks justifies it.  
  
"No? Just like that?"  
  
"I mean… yeah. Why the hell not?"  
  
David's quiet for a little bit, closing his eyes. "We could get married here," he says, like he's maybe a little bit serious. It feels like it should be a big deal, that he just said that, when there's something in the fucking-your-teammate-code about not falling in love and not getting married. But it isn't a big deal, not like that.  
  
"Someday," he says, trying to be cool.  
  
"Someday," David repeats.  
  
Buster lets the silence grow for a little bit. "You want to?"  
  
"Yeah," he says, quiet and thoughtful. Maybe he's thinking about that. Getting married. Having a family.  
  
They get quiet, processing. Funny, Buster doesn't feel like he just proposed, but something's different. When you start promising marriage, it's different.  
  
David tips his head back against Buster's shoulder. "You're gonna miss me," he murmurs, that easy little grin on his face.  
  
Buster presses his lips against David's temple, tightening his arms around his chest. "I'm gonna miss you."  
  
David tilts his head a little more, kisses him, lets his lips rest at the corner of Buster's mouth, eyes closing. He doesn't say anything else.  
  
———  
  
They've been avoiding each other more at the park, hesitant in how they behave, like they're both waiting for the other to end it. Nothing lasts very long out here. The other guys loudly discuss breaking up with the local girls pre-game.  
  
They're leaving the same morning, two days after they win the championship, and David's done first in the morning, so he drives to Buster's place, waits sitting in his driver's seat with his legs hanging out the open door, head tipped against the seat. He doesn't get out when Buster comes down, lets Buster come to him and lean against the truck, arms crossed. Maybe if he acts like he's fine, he'll be fine.  
  
"I don't want to drive all the way down there." David finally says.  
  
"Could have shipped everything and flown home." But Buster knows that's not the point, really. It's just something to say.  
  
"I don't want to." It seems kind of out of place in the conversation, and David doesn't look like he's trying either. He's looking up past them, and maybe everything else. Buster kind of wants to turn and see what his eyes picked to focus on. He's squinting and Buster sort of assumes it's the sun in his face. He picks up slow on feelings sometimes. David forces out a breath and kind of sobs through it, at which point it becomes obvious. Buster leans into the truck with him and wraps him up close, feeling the wet sniffles against his shoulder _,_ making shushing noises, not knowing what else to do. It's not really something he can fix, anyway.  
  
"You gonna be okay?'" He asks after David's wrenched himself off of him and started wiping his face off on his shirt, pulling it up by the collar. What a stupid question.  
  
David sniffs loudly, exhales, straightens his spine, giving his shoulders a shake, like he's done this routine a million times before (he has). Buster's a little proud of him, really. He goes through life like that, not being okay for one reason or another. "I am if you tell me I am," he says, determined.

Buster almost laughs. He does this a lot. Buster always feels like he's lying. He knows David’s way more capable than he is. David guided him this entire summer. He's older. He's smarter, in a more practical way. But he always wants it anyway. Tell me I'm pretty, tell me I did a good job, tell me I'm okay.  
  
"Of course you are." He tries to make it light, slaps his arm lightly, squeezes it and kisses his damp cheek. "Look at you. What's the worst that could happen?"  
  
David shrugs, smiles a little. "I could turn around and come back."  
  
"Nah. You'll just come to Florida in the winter. Right?"  
  
David smiles bigger, like he's surprised. "Yeah. In the winter."  
  
"Now go ahead, get going, you were supposed to leave at ten." Buster hates it, he wants to stay forever in this driveway and get a sunburn, but he's forever resigned to reality and David has to leave, they both do. His chest feels different. It's okay, though. At least it probably is. He squeezes David again, as briefly as he can, and closes his door for him. No sense dragging it out, he thinks, but he leans back in and kisses his cheek again. "Call me when you stop. Love you, okay?"  
  
"Okay. Love you." He sounds so disappointed. So sweet and quiet and hanging onto his shirt. But he knows what Buster's trying to do, even if he wanted him to tell him to stay. So he starts the truck, chews his lip a little, squeezes Buster’s hand through the open window, and drives away. Part of Buster wants to question whether he imagined the whole thing.  
  
He goes back inside. He'll see him again.


End file.
